


Brian + Beam = Introspection

by popfly



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-06-14
Updated: 2004-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-26 13:58:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popfly/pseuds/popfly





	Brian + Beam = Introspection

Thirty-six hours after Stockwell's defeat, and two-thirds of the way into my last bottle of Beam, I make an interesting discovery: the  
ceiling is pretty fucking fascinating. When it spun in circles I couldn’t take my eyes off of it, even though it was making me nauseous. And despite the constant motion, the air in the loft felt hot and heavy, like it was pressing down on my face, on my chest, on my stomach, adding to the queasiness.

I squeezed my eyes shut and thought to rub them, but I had suddenly forgotten how to lift my arms and I couldn’t get my fingers to release their death grip on the neck of the bottle at my side. My eyes felt hot and itchy. Fuck. Fuck, fuck. I was not going to . . . Christ. I couldn’t even think the fucking word. My head was getting fuzzy and the panic rose in my chest, crushing nausea and clamping around my heart with its cold, hard fist. I sucked in shallow breaths of the stifling air and then the door slid open, metal on metal, and from my spot where the couch used to be I could feel the cooler air from the hallway on my cheek.

“Brian?”

Panic released my heart and seemed to leave altogether. When I opened my eyes the ceiling had steadied and I no longer felt like . . . fuck. Whatever. All I knew was that Justin was there.

“Brian?” he said again, and the door thudded shut. I heard his footsteps move closer, then, “Jesus Brian. What the fuck are you doing sprawled out on the floor? You do still have a bed, you know.” His face entered my line of vision, frown lines in his forehead peeking from behind the curtain of blonde hair.

“Hey,” I managed to say, my voice sounding far away and a little shaky. I watched Justin’s nose wrinkle and he waved a hand in front of his face.

“Christ, Brian. You’re drunk.”

I tried to give him one of my most charming sarcastic smirks, but my facial muscles went the way of my arms and my mouth stayed slack. I couldn’t even snark. Pathetic. So instead I shifted my eyes in the direction of the Beam before looking back at him. “Want a drink?”

He laughed a little sadly and pried my fingers away from the bottle. “I think we’re all done drinking.”

My fingers, lifeless just moments ago, now seemed to have minds of their own. They gripped his and tugged, bringing him to his knees beside me. I could feel his leg against my hip and the contact was comforting, reassuring. I think he was trying to rid himself of his coat, but I was holding as tightly to his hand as I’d been the bottle moments before. “Justin,” I said. It came out more like “Shushtin,” and I didn’t know what I wanted to say next; my mouth was three steps ahead of my mind.

“Brian,” he replied, his voice low, his face close to mine. I could smell him, the blend of cotton and soap that was so distinctly him, and I closed my eyes again, breathing him in.

“Let’s get you into bed.” I let him pull me to my feet, although at that point my body had rebelled and I obviously didn’t have any other fucking option. I leaned on him as we made our way slowly across the floor. And then I had a brilliant realization. I could lean on Justin. I could. I didn’t have to, but I could.

After standing on my own two feet for so long, after being my own goddamned person almost to the point of excluding others, it felt good to be one half of Brian and Justin, to know that he was there. And it didn’t make me weak, it didn’t make me a dyke. It made me, god forbid, happy.

And I thought to tell him, with one foot on the bottom step up to my bedroom, Justin’s arm around my back, the white-gold of his hair brushing my bicep and his warmth running up my side, but all I could say was “I think I’m going to be sick,” before he dragged me to the bathroom and let me fall to the tile and empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet.

And when I was done and he sat beside me, ruffling the short hairs at the nape of my neck while I pressed my cheek to the cold porcelain, the moment had passed. But I felt calm, calmer than I had in days, fucking weeks. Because I wasn’t alone. Like Justin’d said, I hadn’t lost everything. And there’d be time. Time to tell him that he’d been right all along. We had time.


End file.
